


The Woman In Red

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:33:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3636873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Based off a general request on a Tumblr Post) #PLEASE SOMEBODY WRITE A FIC WHERE SHAW HAS TO GO UNDERCOVER AS A POLE DANCER AND SHE’S ACTUALLY LOOKING AT ROOT#Who is clearly not paying attention to the mission AT ALL. John Lionel and Harold are all just like…#’ Ladies please take care of this sexual tension. It is getting in the way of the job. Even if it takes you a fucking month of#locking yourselves inside and not seeing daylight. At least you’ll be paying attention when you get back from your sex leave. ‘</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Woman In Red

"Oh dear," Harold’s voice carries out from their run down subway car. From her kneeling stance, Sameen Shaw gives Bear one last pat, then stands. Looking over, she sees Root’s eyes staring intently at her from the bench. Shaw purses her lips.

"Can I help you?" She asks snidely.

"Well, Sameen," Root coos, leaning forward on the seat, "now that you mention it…"

Shaw rolls her eyes, then walks to the train car. Surrounded by a wall of computers, Shaw sees the back of Harold Finch’s head as his fingers dance along a keyboard. Leaning on the desk at his side is John Reese.

"What’s the problem, Harry?" Root brings up the rear, leaning against the car opening. Harold turns in his chair to look at them all.

In his level voice, he states, “Our new number is a doozy.”

Shaw licks her lips, scoffing. “Since when has a doozy ever been a problem, Harold?” She steps up to the computer and reads the profile on the screen. A small smirk spreads across her face.

"That doesn’t seem so bad," she says, glancing at Reese. "I’ve been meaning to get out some. Crack a few skulls."

"I’m afraid, Miss. Shaw, you will not be doing the skull cracking on this mission." Harold stands, then walks to the other side of the car. His slight limp barely slows him as he flips through a few files. Coming back, he hands her a piece of paper.

"What is this?" She asks incredulously, looking at the photo. A grainy shot of a run down, neon-lit strip club.

"This is where you will be working. Tonight."

Shaw’s mouth opens in a scowl as she shakes her head, slight rage boiling in her veins. “Oh no. No, Harold. Why can’t she do it?” Her voice jumps an octive as she glowers with clenched teeth, and John shifts uncomfortably at his place on the desk. From behind, Root steps forward, taking the photo from Sameen’s hand.

"Because, Sameen, I’m already working the night shift. Waitress." Then, taking Shaws shoulder’s in her hands from behind, she leans her head down next to hers. "Besides, red lingerie really isn’t my color."

With anger, one of the seldom emotions she reveals, Shaw pulls herself from Root’s grasp, visibly bristling.

Harold, looking down at his watch, frowns. “It’s getting late. You best be going. Mr. Reese, make sure to bring Detective Fusco with you.”

"Oh come on, Harold!" Shaw fumes, balling her hands into fists. "Is that really necessary?"

"Considering you will be there to keep a high security technician safe- in a place littered with gang members and some Samaritin opperatives out for his capture? All hands on deck, Miss. Shaw."

With one last eye roll, Shaw relinquishes some of her hostility, and stalks from the traincar. Once she is out of sight, John and Root bid farewell to Harold.

"Ready to go, John?" Root asks with a half-quirked smile. "I can tell this is going to be a fun night."

_________\If Your Number’s Up/________

The tension in the car ride was suffocatingly high, and all four were relieved to get outside, no matter how stale the beer-filled air was. Now, only minutes before show time, Root walks into the dressing room. She wears a short-dress uniform, high heels, and holds a tray under one arm. Spotting her target from the dressing room entrance, she walks forward.

"Hey, Sweetie, are you ready for your big night?" Her voice is smug and more than bemused, setting Shaw off in a flusterred spiral.

"Oh, can it, Root, before I shoot you." Root chuckles, letting slip one of her abashed smiles as she pushes some hair out of her face. A smile that always seems to slip in Sameen’s presence.

Annoyed, Shaw turns back to the dressing mirror, tying her white robe tighter. As she starts to apply some makeup, a manager comes in, calling Root to post.

"I’ll see you on stage, Sameen," Root tells her, looking into her eyes through the mirror. Then, with a slight crinkle of her nose, she leaves; leaving Shaw to get ready and clear her clutterred head.

"You new here?" A sweet, girly voice rings in Shaw’s ear, and she looks up. There, a firey ginger in pigtails leans against Shaw’s work station, white smile gleaming.

"Uh, yeah." Shaw says. The woman sticks out a hand.

"I’m Wendy- the head girl. I oversee all of these girls to make sure no one gets hurt, and everyone plays fair. I also perform a little." Shaw looks at her again, and realizes she is indeed a little older than the rest of the women here; but still wearing the club’s uniform wear.

Shaw takes her hand, giving it a firm shake. “I’m S-“

"No, no!" Wendy interjects, dropping her hand. "We don’t do real names here. If you’d slipped with me, it’d be fine. But some of the customers…" Wendy’s eyes drift eerily to the door, "…. Can be a little attatched. They call me Wendy because of the red hair and pigtails. What do you want your stage name to be, kid?"

Shaw looks at her tastelessly. “I don’t want a stage name.” ‘I don’t want to be here.’ She thinks bitterly.

"Hmmm," Wendy ponders, hand to her cheek as she looks Shaw up and down. "Well, since you are signed up for the competition- daring for your first night- we need something hot."

"Harold…" Shaw growls between clenched teeth. "A. Con.test.?"

"I’m sorry, Miss. Shaw," he replies through the ear wig. "But we needed someone with eyes over every person in the room, and this is our easiest option." Clicking her teeth, Shaw reinserts herself into Wendy’s words.

"I think," she says at long last. "We’ll call you The Woman in Red. Now, Red, have you ever done this before?"

Shaw shakes her head.

"The key is to connect to one person in the crowd. Don’t pick someone that looks perverse, but rather someone indifferent. Or someone that looks pleased but not in a sickening way. Your choice in the end, but having one person to perform for instead of a hooting crowd can make things alot easier. Got me?"

Shaw nods.

"Okay, well, great!" Wendy claps her hands together, turning to the stage. "One last thing. This is a competition, so all bets are off. Do anything and everything you can to get the votes. Okay? Okay! Showtime!"

____________\We’ll Find You/___________

Root weaves through the dense crowd of men fresh out of a long day at work and cigar smoke as the lights go down. All around, alcoholic whistles and hoots fill the dank air, and the stage lights thunder on. Wendy takes to the center of the walkway, mike in hand.

"How is everybody doing tonight?" She asks, followed by hollers and feet stomping on the hard ground. "Good. Well, as you all know," she leans forward, as if revealing some large secret to them all. "We have a special show tonight. You will see four lovely woman, and at the end of the night, vote on your favorite." Murmers of anticipation electrify the air. "Is everybody ready?" She asks, and the crowd roars. With a devilish smile, she turns on her heel, strutting to the back of the walk. Then, back facing the crowd, she puts a hand up to the sky.

"Let’s begin." The club errupts like Mt. St. Helena as the errotic music blasts through the speakers, and multicolored strobe lights scan the crowd. Shaking her head, Root shimmies her way past a group of standing construction workers, and stops at John’s table.

"Hello, boys," she chimes, looking at the both of them. John’s look is indifferent, as if he is five seconds from a migrane. "What? Gentlemen’s clubs not your thing, John?" She asks jokingly, pulling out a note pad.

"As a matter of fact, they’re not. I’ll take a burbon; I’m gonna need it." Root smiles, then turns to Fusco, who is visibyly taken aback at her attire.

"Can I get you anything Lionel?" He swallows hard, eyes locked somewhere on Root’s forehead.

"A, uh, water will do, thanks."

"On it," she replies, turning with a wink. Once she is out of hearing range, Lionel slams a fist to the table.

"Why didn’t your little tech bot warn me about this?!" He asks angrily into his ear piece.

"I assume she didn’t think it would be a big deal," Harold replies plainly. "We have more pressing matters than wardrobe."

"Well I would have liked to know that the nutjob was going to be working here!" He fumes, flustered. "Could have evaded my eyes or something."

"Well, Lionel," John says from across the table. His voice is low, yet it carries through their rambunctious surroundings. "I’ll warn you before Shaw makes her appearance, so you can cover them. Happy?"

Fusco gives John a confused look, that morfs into utter shock. “Oh no, no, no! You did not get Shaw to work here!” He laughs, but once no one gives on what he thinks is a joke, he coughs into submission. “I don’t know why I even work with you criminals,” he mutters to himself, and John smiles in light amusement.

Root comes over with her tray as the first woman walks off the stage. After handing them their beverages, she smiles.

"Our number just walked through the door," she says, and the two men follow her gaze. A disorganized group of computer geeks stumble through the door, pushing one man in particular forward. He has a light brown beard and curly hair, a scrawny frame, and wire-rimmed glasses containing wild and bewildered chocolate eyes. The group of men sit him down in one of the front row lounge chairs, and immediately start their cat calling.

"Technichian Kevin," Reese states, sipping from his glass. "Looks like they brought him out to have a good time. Promotion?"

"Just because Julius Cæsar was declared the next king of Rome, doesn’t mean all his friends went for the celebration," Root replies darkly, recieved by nodding.

"But look at the man in the far corner of the bar," Fusco points out. And there he is, a black suited figure in a corner where no light seems to touch. However, the translucent wire on his ear gives something crucial away.

"Samaritin is here," John states, more to Harold than the others. "And something tells me they didn’t show up just for the quality entertainment."

"There’s one in every corner," Root remarks, scanning the building with her deep, brown eyes. "And at each exit. Whatever Kevin has,"

"Samaritin wants." Harold finishes her sentence. "Miss. Groves, see if you can’t get a better focal point on him. Perhaps across the way. Be sure to see his face. We need to be sure he is all right."

"You got it, Harry," Root smirks, picking up her tray. She smooths down her dangerously short dress before continuing. "It was a pleasure talking to you gentlemen," her smile is humorous as she walks back into the throng. Skirting past a large group of men in work ties, jackets slung over one shoulder, she finds herself at a stand still. At either side, clusters of tightly knit men block any chance of passage; behind her is an island bar; and in front is the stage. The only thing between her and it are two lounge chairs with a coffee table between them. Looking over, she can just barely make out Kevin’s features.

"Okay, Harold, I think this is as good as it’s going to-"

"Next up is a new-comer to the Chicas Locas," Wendy’s voice projects over every square inch of the space, making it impossible for Root to hear even her own thoughts. "Give it up for…. The Woman in Red!"

__________\The Woman in Red/_________

How she ever got into this posititon, she didn’t know. How she ever allowed herself to be here, she didn’t know either. I’m really getting sick of ‘doing it for the mission,’ Sameen Shaw thinks tastelessly as she shimmies off her robe. As she walks backstage, the other girls, all dressed in the same uniform, give her thumbs up and looks of encouragement. She gives them quaint smiles in return, but her main focus remains on what she must do. Watch everyone. See everyone. Keep the number safe.

From the side of the stage, Shaw watches Wendy talking into the microphone. She looks out on the waves of people, and something in her stomach shifts. Is this nervousness? Uncomfortableness? Shaw couldn’t quite place the feeling, only that it must have been what Wendy warned her about. Casting her gaze down, Shaw takes in her attire. A red laced brassiere, matching panties, and some white, frilly bands around her upper thighs. She puts a hand to her hair; it’s smooth and straight.

"Give it up for… The Woman in Red!" Hoots and foot stamping flood Shaw’s ears as Wendy comes to pass.

"Knock ‘em dead," Wendy tells her, which is rewarded with a silent chuckle.

"I wish," Shaw replies, then heads down the walkway.

Instantly, she is taken over with the flashing lights as they scatter like shattered glass across the crowd. The sound of the music is intoxicating- disorienting. With a determined look on her face, Shaw scans the crowd looking for the number. But that uneasy feeling grows as each shattered light comes together, repairing their broken pieces into one large light, focused on the stage alone. Sure, there are dim ceiling lights above the bars, and small click-lights set on each coffee table, but something about this is alien.

"C’mon Sameen," Shaw says to herself, under her breath. "There’s nothing to this." Wendy’s words echo in her ears. "Find someone to look at…." Shaw stops walking once she reaches a large, metal pole, her eyes prying and sifting through the crowd. The music fades into the background as she strains to focus on someone, anyone.

"Miss. Shaw?" Harold’s voice chirps in her ear, yet she continues to scan without answerring.

"Miss. Shaw, are you all right?"

"Give me a minute, Harold," she mutters with gritted teeth.

"I’m afraid we do not have a minute; the crowd is getting quite anxious as to what is wrong."

Shaw looks around, and her eyes finally stop their search. Why they stopped there, she didn’t know. Why she felt the unease relinquish its grip once they stopped, she didn’t know either. But it worked. As if some trance was broken, Shaw let loose. For the case, of course.

She keeps direct eye contact as she works her way around the edges of the stage, small turns, then back to the centerpiece. Sliding down, a small smirk flickers across Sameen’s face, directed straight at her person of interest, until it forms into a more serious and provocative gaze.

From no more than ten feet away, Root watches with a broad smile she tries desperately to conceal. Her eyes are locked with Shaw’s, and as Root tries to move through the crowd, Shaw’s eyes follow hers. The music grows louder as the shouts grow in their size. From behind them, John sighs.

"Root, eyes on Kevin." He instructs, amusement playing in his voice as he struggles to see their number through the people. The men are all on their feet now, hollerring as Shaw performs on the walkway. Running a hand through her hair, Sameen messes it up completely, making the hounds wild. She dips, slides, and rolls her body around the pole, never once breaking eye contact. She sits next to the pole, eyes intense, and then slides off the stage. The crowd goes into an upheaval. Fusco looks at Root and groans.

"She can’t hear you, John," he says with mild annoyance, gesturing to her with his hand. "Look at her, she’s doing that eye thing again." John presses his lips together, trying to devise a plan.

"Harold, I need a favor of you," Reese says, but his voice is lost in the shouts.

Now on the ground, Shaw canters down the floor, trailing her fingers along the leather couches. One hand sways dangerously next to her thigh. Root stands, frozen in place as Shaw meanders forward. The men clumsily fumble out of her way, watching as she glides past them. One man makes the mistake of stepping forward, the alcohol seeming to seep from every pore. Shaw smiles at him in a condescending way, then pushes him easily to the side. Within seconds, he is engulfed by the rowdy throng.

Now, nothing in her way, Shaw closes the space between herself and Root. Root’s eyes are alight; her smile broad and radiant. Shaw’s own eyes seem to be devouring the moment. Shaw pulls in closer, her lips nearly grazing Root’s. With less than a centimeter between the two of them, Shaw turns. She puts one hand on Root’s neck, then leans into her, sliding down. Root’s heart leaps to her throat. Heart hammering, threatening to burst, Root places her hands on Shaw’s hips; the concourse hoots its overwhelming approval. Smiling, Sameen brings herself back up and presses her nose into the side of Root’s neck, silently breathing her in. Maybe this mission isn’t so bad, she thinks to herself, then instantly swats the pesky thought away.

"Can we do this now?" Fusco complains, pushing the straw around in his water glass. "Before Bambi eyes over there winds up getting a lap dance?"

"I’m all for getting out of here too, Lionel," John sighs in exhasperation- tired of hearing his constant mutterring. "But we have to wait. Until. Kevin. Is. In. Danger."

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

Sameen turns to face Root, putting both hands around her neck, swaying in some sped up slow dance. Her face is lit in delight, laughing- happy? Root, too, seems to be on a whole new level of bliss, her hands slipping from Shaw’s hips and encircling her waist. Just as Shaw starts to pull in, one of the Samaritin opperatives makes a move towards the number.

"Shaw. Root. It’s time." John says, standing. He takes out his gun, followed by Fusco. "Shaw! Root!" Looking over, Reese turns just in time to see Root’s hand leave her ear, eyes helplessly entranced. Great, he thinks angrily, she turned the damn ear wig off.

As the Samaritin opperative closes in, John spits venom. “Now, Harold.” He says, walking forward, gun drawn.

On cue, every light goes off and the music cuts abruptly. A shot erupts into the air, and one of the waitresses scream. Everything stands still for moment, holding its breath. Then, just as quickly as there was stillness, there was bedlam. A stampede of bodies run towards exits, dancers close the dressing room doors, waitresses hide behind the bars or follow out to exits, gunmen shoot haphazardly into walls and light fixtures. Shaw, preparing for a fight long before, stealthily slips past running figures and to the small table. Groping with her hand on the underside, she feels the handle of her taped gun, and rips it from its hiding place. Clicking the safety off, she snaps into battle mode. From her waistband, Root pulls a gun from either side, joining the party. Shots in the dark are fired, people fall- some scream out in pain- and then there is an openning. Quick as a whip, Shaw siezes the opportunity and grabs Kevin by the collar. He screams a high pitched, dying animal squeal.

"Shut up," Shaw barks at him, which only makes him scream louder. "Do you want me to shoot you?!" She asks angrily, putting the barrel to his back. He is scared into silence.

To her earpiece, Shaw says, “I got him.” Silently, five people slip from the gunfight and out into the cool night air. It smells different now, less sweaty, more bloody. Still drunk.

Crossing down a side road, a police siren wails from behind, and they creep into an alleyway. Finally, there is silence.

"Hello, Kevin," Reese greets him, his strong figure looming menacingly in the dark.

"Uh… he-hello-o-o." Kevin sputters back, slightly trembling.

"Tell me Kevin, why would anyone want to kill a charming man like yourself?" John’s voice is smooth and quiet, not at all showing the anger he feels for the two ladies to his right.

"I- I work on a computer p-program. Or, I used to. I- I quit. New job."

"And what was that program?"

"They uh, they called it Samaritin." Reese rolls his tongue along his teeth at the answer, then listens as Harold speaks.

"So, Kevin," Reese says. "Listen to me, and listen closely. If you want to live, you will do everything exactly as I say. You will take the next train from here to South Dakota. From there, you will look for an old CD store. Find a Ferdinand Rowling. Tell him a Mr. Finch sent you. Okay?"

Kevin digests this information, then nods vigorously.

"Good," John smiles devilishly. "Now, take this street to the corner, make a left, then follow that all the way down. Train station’s at the T-bone on that street. Good luck." With that, Kevin hustles- no- sprints down the street and out of sight.

"Mission accomplished," Shaw says, yawning. "Told you it sounded easy."

"It would have been easier if you actually took part," John spits back moodily, recieved by a signiature eye roll.

"Who’s hungry?" Root asks, trying to diffuse some of the tension.

"I could go for a burger," Fusco confesses. John gives him a deadly stare. "What?" He asks defensively.

"I’m sorry to be the bear of bad news," Harold joins in their conversation, "but you are needed down at the Chicas Locas. The NYPD is calling in your assistance. As for the rest of you, I’ll be there in moment."

Clucking his teeth, Fusco walks back in the direction from which they came. Not a second later, a logo-less, gray van pulls around the corner. In the driver’s seat is Harold, and in the passenger is Bear.

"Oh look," Root quips, heading for the back door, "he’s finally emerged from his cave."

"I didn’t know you had a license, Harold," Shaw joins in the banterring, then steps into the vehicle. John silently steps in behind her. Once they are all sitting, Harold revs the engine.

"You cold, Sam?" Root asks, looking at Shaw. In the heat of the firefight, she hadn’t had the time to get her clothes from the dressing room.

"I’m fine."

"Here," Root says, ignoring Shaws answer. Scooting over, she drapes a bloody jacket over her shoulders. Her hands linger along Shaw’s arms. "I grabbed it from one of the guys laying on the ground. I don’t think he’ll miss it." Shaw shakes her head in slight amusement.

"Miss. Groves?" Harold calls behind him, not taking his eyes from the road.

"Yes, Harry?"

"May I ask why you turned your ear wig off momentarily in that club?"

Silence.

Then, she clears her throat, stealing a glance at Sameen. “Well, Harold, if you must know…”

"Please, don’t. You don’t want to know." John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You act like it was so bad, John." Root says, visibly pleased.

"Well, maybe it’s a personal preference," John shoots back. "I like getting the job done; you like goggling at Sameen."

"I don’t gog-"

"Enough!" Harold’s angered voice is followed by a deadly silence. "Let’s… deal with this is the morning."

"Oh, the two of them will need a room before then." John mutters with a smile on his face. He looks at Shaw- is it the lighting, or is she blushing?- then leans back into the wall of the van. Shaw gives him a cross look, but says nothing

Yawning, Root leans her head on Shaw’s shoulder. Shaw starts to recoil, but changes her mind. Instead, she lets her be and closes her eyes, letting her head rest against the van’s cool side. She thinks she feels a hand hand slipping to her thigh, but is too exhausted to check. Within minutes, the two are sound asleep, Sameen snoring lightly.

Carefully, John slides to the front, leaning on the front console. His voice is low, but serious.

"What are we going to do about them, Harold?"

"There is nothing we really can do," he replies, glancing briefly at John. "Not until they figure it out themselves."

"Well, it’s taking them long enough," John vents, looking back at the two of them. "They’re the only two of us all that don’t know they’re married." Harold laughs at Reese’s analysis, his smile pulling into a lopsided grin.

"If you wish to tell them, be my guest." He replies, turning into an impound lot a few blocks from the subway.

"No, I don’t think Shaw would be too open about that," John’s mind wanders slightly, calculating different options and their outcomes. "We could just lock them in a room together," he muses. "They’ll either kill each other or work it out." Again, Harold laughs, parking the van. Reaching across the front seat, Harold clips a leash to Bear and opens the door. John heads to the back of the van to wake the two women, but falls short. He looks at them a moment, his eyes taking in everything about them. He looks at their heads, Shaw’s now laying across the top of Root’s. Her hand is on Sameen’s knee; their legs are crossed over one another. Something, John realizes, Shaw would never stand for if awake. A devious smile on his charming face, he pulls the phone from his pocket. Sliding it into camera mode, he snaps the shot.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Note that my first 40-something fan-fictions will be merely copied and pasted from my tumblr to here, so I hope that all italics and such work!


End file.
